


Ruffled

by buskie



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Coming Untouched, Consent Issues, Edging, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Pining, Pre-Armageddon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-13
Updated: 2019-09-27
Packaged: 2020-10-17 10:44:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20619731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buskie/pseuds/buskie
Summary: It was a jealously guarded secret amongst a handful of angels and demons that to possess a single feather of an Ethereal or Occult being essentially meant that you possessed the angel or demon it came from. Crowley had known this before he Fell, had forgot, and then had been rudely reminded again when someone had got ahold of one of Hastur’s feathers.(The memory was traumatizing enough that anytime it was brought up, Crowley dove headlong into a four day binge that involved copious amounts of strong whiskey and sobbing in his bathtub.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For the kinkmeme prompt: Molted feathers function similarly to voodoo dolls; that is to say, they transmit any touch to the angel/demon they came from.
> 
> Possible [smut] plot ideas:  
Aziraphale doesn't know this, but 'borrows' one of Crowley's feathers post-groom molt, and idly caresses it whenever he daydreams of Crowley. It's harmless right? After all he's not hurting anyone...
> 
> Crowley's being teased to an inch of his life. He doesn't know who has a feather of his, but he's starting to suspect.
> 
> Preferred that both have cocks, but definitely not required.  
It's also likely that I'll make a comic of this if it's filled.  
Eventually Crowley catches on and decides to give Aziraphale a demonstration. "Can I have one of your feathers? I have to show you something."
> 
> The consent warning is because Aziraphale doesn’t know what he’s doing and Crowley didn’t sign up for this, no matter how much he’s enjoying himself. 
> 
> The reference to quill sucking is a nod to Harry Potter. Also, this is set sometime between 2007 and 2008.

Crowley was stretched out on a bed in a suite at Blythswood Square, arms splayed over the huge mattress, feeling rather sorry for himself. He’d spent yesterday evening getting drunk with Aziraphale at his bookshop, a treat he rarely let himself indulge in these days. But then Aziraphale had wanted to reminisce, and suddenly it was just over four decades ago and Aziraphale was saying, _You move too fast for me, Crowley._

“Bah,” he said, waving his hand through the air as if he could wave away the memory, then flopping it back to his chest. The night had ended awkwardly—mostly because Crowley had snaked out of the bookshop in the middle of Aziraphale cheerfully recounting the time Crowley had dropped bombs on their heads. Outside, he had sobered up, hopped into his Bentley, and drove straight to Scotland on the flimsy pretense of needing to perform the extremely important temptation. He was supposed to encourage a uni student to dump her arsehole boyfriend and pursue a degree in International Relations and Political Communication. If all went according to plan, she would make huge improvements in Scotland’s environmental policy. Not that Below cared about that—Below only cared that they had another politician in their pocket.

Somehow, Crowley had the nagging suspicion that even his _temptations_ were being influenced by the angel these days.

“You move too fast for me, Crowley,” Crowley mocked, pitching his voice into a campy falsetto. He sighed. Maybe he should just sleep through the next decade.

It was too bad, really. He had quite liked the twentieth century, but the _twenty-first_ century was starting off with a bang. Apple had just released their first iPhone, revolutionizing cellphones in a way that had a lot of potential for him to earn another commendation. He’d hate to miss out on a full decade. Maybe just for a year then. Or two. He had just drifted off when a shock of pleasure hit him so hard he flailed right off his bed.

“What—” he gasped. For a long moment, he lay splayed on the ground, blinking at the ceiling and wondering what the _fuck_ just happened. He dragged himself halfway up, kneeling at the side of his bed like in prayer. It _felt_ holy—he couldn’t quite put his finger on how he could tell, just that whoever was touching him felt untainted, like pure sunlight spilling over his skin. Sweet. Ethereal. _Familiar._

_Angelic._

Crowley planted his hands on his mattress. _Azira—?_ he thought, but was cut off when another wave of ecstasy pulsed through him. His arms buckled and he gasped into his sheets, eyes wide. 

It felt like every nerve ending in his body had blown open and were being assaulted by pure, unadulterated pleasure. It made him instantly, _impossibly_ hard, harder than he’d ever been in his fucking life, the tip of his prick dripping wet in seconds.

“Oh _fuck_,” he gasped, cock throbbing heavy in his pants. He had never felt anything like this before, euphoria wracking his body in wave after catastrophic wave. Every time he tried to move, he was hit again, leaving him stumbling against the side of his bed.

He dug his fingers into his mattress, desperate to touch himself but entirely incapable of convincing his arms to move. And then it felt as if lips were brushing down his chest, and Crowley groaned, his hips stuttering, more pre-come spilling out of the tip of his prick, making a mess of his boxer-briefs. 

He’d never been brought this close to the edge this quickly.

The caress stopped right at the edge of his cock and, without pause, wrapped around the tip.

The noise that came out of Crowley was rather fucking embarrassing—a cross between a wail and a sob—but no one was around to hear him make it, so he let loose without reservation. He held onto the bed, burying his face in the sheets to stifle his strangled half-sobs, entire body jerking when the feeling of a soft tongue slid over the slick tip of his prick. He wanted—he needed—he was _so close_—

And then—

—nothing.

“_Noo!_” Crowley howled, slamming his fist down on the mattress. His prick throbbed painfully at the abrupt denial of release. He felt wild, mad with lust, _forsaken_ by whatever goddamned angel had brought him to the brink of the absolution and then just fucking _abandoned_ him.

It took a short eternity for his body to come down from its high. He was left trembling against the side of his bed, his dick still pulsing, wet, soaking through his pants. Gasping, desperate for release but shaking too hard to bring himself off, he clutched at his mattress as if he’d fly off into the universe without it there to anchor him. His mind was a whirlwind of thoughts, and in the center of the hurricane was a single question: _Who the fuck has one of my feathers?_

* * *

_Earlier_

There was a black feather sitting on his window sill.

It was a smaller flight feather, spanning the length of Aziraphale’s hand, and so black it absorbed the surrounding light. He stood over it, considering it like a cat might consider a light sparkling against the floor. It must be one of Crowley’s. But what was Crowley doing, leaving his feathers around in Aziraphale’s shop? Was he molting? Maybe it was a demon thing. Angels, at least, knew better than to leave their feathers lying around willy-nilly.

What was he supposed to do with it? He couldn’t just toss it. With a sigh, he plucked the feather from the sill. Curiously, he drew his fingers along one soft side.

* * *

Around this time, Crowley flailed out of his bed.

* * *

It had to be Crowley’s. No other demon would dare enter Aziraphale’s bookshop. He lifted the feather to his face, inhaling, and—yes, it _smelled_ like Crowley: cologne that cost an outrageous two hundred pounds per one hundred milliliters and, underneath, a slight hint of sulphur. Aziraphale closed his eyes. The smell was so familiar now that it both settled Aziraphale and filled him with a sort of nameless longing.

Aziraphale absently stroked his fingers over the feather. Before last night, it had been weeks since they’d last seen each other, and before that, nearly a full decade. Their relationship had been strained since the whole debacle with the holy water. Sure, Crowley still dropped by at the bookshop once in awhile to get roaring drunk, but it used to be that Aziraphale would need to drop hints about how _it was quite dreadfully late_ and how _he really did have important work to get on with_. Now Crowley couldn’t seem to get away fast enough.

Aziraphale leaned his forearm against the counter and sighed, bringing Crowley’s feather up to his face. Idly, he ran the barbs against his lips, eyes drifting shut at the scent. He didn’t dare say it out loud, barely managed to even admit it to himself, but he _missed_ Crowley. Unconsciously, he wrapped his lips around the end of the feather.

Aziraphale flushed when he realized what he had just done. Centuries ago, it had been a bad habit of his to suck on the end of his quill while he was thinking. It was a trifle obscene, however, to suck on Crowley’s feather. But the taste—he flicked his tongue over the tip of his feather before he could talk himself out of it. It tasted slightly burnt, slightly salty, and, surprisingly, slightly sweet. Like burnt sugar on top of creme brûlée.

The bell over his front door jangled and a pair of women walked in, chatting quietly, their fingers tangled together.

Blushing hotly, Aziraphale set the feather down on his counter, then steepled his fingers and rested them against his lips, wistfully watching the women laugh over some private joke. He sighed and glanced back down at the feather. What was Crowley doing right now?

* * *

“_Noo!_” Crowley howled, slamming his fist down on the mattress.

* * *

It was a jealously guarded secret amongst a handful of angels and demons that to possess a single feather of an Ethereal or Occult being essentially meant that you possessed the angel or demon it came from. Crowley had known this before he Fell, had forgot, and then had been rudely reminded again when someone had got ahold of one of Hastur’s feathers.

(The memory was traumatizing enough that anytime it was brought up, Crowley dove headlong into a four day binge that involved copious amounts of strong whiskey and sobbing in his bathtub.)

But it effectively left him with the (traumatic) knowledge that to lose a feather was to lose yourself to all-encompassing bliss whenever your feather was fondled. After this (scarring) revelation, Crowley had been very careful about his feathers. Deep down, he _was_ mildly curious—horrible as it had been to witness, it had looked, well. _Well_. But that was a degree of power Crowley wouldn’t just give up to anyone.

Except, apparently, someone did have that power now. Crowley had a sneaking suspicion he knew who. 

Or, at least, he hoped. The alternatives were far too horrifying to contemplate.


	2. Chapter 2

Crowley gripped his steering wheel, going a sedate one hundred and two mph on an empty road at roughly one in the morning. His arms still shivered from lingering arousal. As soon as he had managed to get his legs under him again, he’d grabbed his keys and bolted for his Bentley. 

There was an angel he had to _murder to death_.

He fumbled with his new iPhone one-handed, poking at the screen with his thumb until Aziraphale’s name popped up, then brought the phone up to his ear. It rang. It continued to ring.

After the thirty-fourth ring, Crowley was forced to admit that either Aziraphale wasn’t there or he was ignoring the call. He _told_ the angel he needed an answering machine. Crowley had a lot to say to him.

If he had Crowley’s feather. 

He _had_ to have Crowley’s feather. Not only could no other angel possibly make him feel like this, but it was equally impossible that Crowley could have been so careless to lose one of his feathers to anyone _but_ Aziraphale.

Which meant that:

a) Aziraphale knew the deep dark secret about feathers and was using Crowley’s feather to be the _biggest cocktease in the world_

b) Aziraphale _did not_ know the deep dark secret about feathers and just liked to cluelessly fondle Crowley’s feather like the _biggest cocktease in the world_

c) Aziraphale did not have his feather

As much as he wished otherwise, option a) was most likely _not_ the case, and option c) didn’t bear thinking of. Which meant that, for some reason, Aziraphale had got his hands on one of Crowley’s feathers and was _constantly_ playing with it and—and _licking_ it. That was a thing. What kind of thing, he wasn’t sure yet, but he was going to find out if it killed him.

Or, rather, if _Aziraphale_ killed him, which was increasingly more likely.

Such as now: Crowley just managed to slam on his brakes right as a blindingly intense wave of pleasure crashed through him. He wrenched his wheel to the side, gently plowing the Bentley into a rain ditch.

He was going to _murder_—

A long groan escaped from his mouth, one hand flying up to brace against the roof of his Bentley as ecstasy rocketed through him. He shoved himself against his seat, feet sliding in the footwell. Familiar fingers (it had to be Aziraphale, it _had_ to be) danced down the base of his prick, feather-light. Like at the hotel, he was rock hard from one heartbeat to the next, pulsing pre-come into his shorts. Heat flushed up up the back of his neck. He wasn’t in public, thank _someone_, but there was an occasional glare of headlights in his back window, and he had no idea what he _could_ do if someone pulled over to check why a classic Bentley was in a rain ditch. 

His _Bentley_.

He was going to _murder_—

He gasped harshly. Aziraphale must be caressing his face with Crowley’s feather, because it felt exactly like having his entire body nuzzled. Still, he thought, moodily, Aziraphale was probably going to bring him to the brink—again—and leave him tight, and trembling, and _aching_—again. He was going to be _really_ irritated if he ended the night with a dented fender _and_ blue balls.

But then lips skimmed over his nipple, and then lingered like a thoughtful kiss. Crowley’s entire body jerked violently and he let out a strangled yelp that trailed off into a hiss.

A little over two centuries ago during a particularly hedonistic binge post-argument with a certain blond angel, _who was currently torturing him to discorporation_, Crowley had learned that he could get off just from his nipples being stimulated. It took awhile and usually ended with an orgasm sneaking up on him and clubbing him over the head, but _what_ an orgasm.

These sensations, now, were heightened twenty-fold. Fireworks cracked through his body as Aziraphale nibbled on his nipple with his lips. Crowley dropped his hand to the back of his headrest, holding on for dear life, wishing that he was holding the back of a blond head instead.

_Please,_ he begged silently.

And then Aziraphale took his nipple between his teeth and worried it with his tongue, and Crowley arched away from his seat with a shout, his orgasm slamming through him, spilling hot and messy into his pants.

Before he could even sink back into his seat, before he could even finish one of the Top Ten Orgasms Of His Entire Life, Aziraphale’s lips trailed down his body, and the head of his prick was suddenly engulfed in a warm mouth. Crowley howled. If Aziraphale knew what he was doing, if he were _here_, maybe he would give Crowley a moment’s reprieve, but he didn’t, and he wasn’t, and so Crowley was left writhing in his seat, hips rolling in an attempt to get _more_, to get _deeper_. The feeling of a warm tongue twirling around the tip of his prick, the sharp corner of a tooth, and Crowley was gone, hoarsely screaming as his second orgasm was wrenched out of him on the heels of his first.

Aziraphale didn’t pull away. It felt like coming down his throat in long pulses as he idly sucked at the tip of Crowley’s prick. Crowley sobbed, thumping his head against his headrest. Lips dragged slowly off his prick and Crowley sank back into his seat, the only sound in his car his harsh breathing and the tinny voice of Freddie Mercury’s voice singing, “_We will, we will rock you—one more time!_” because his Bentley had a sick sense of humor and was getting revenge on him for driving it into a ditch.

“_Fuck_,” Crowley sobbed as another wave of pleasure burst through his body. The sensation of fingers drifted across his skin. His dick gave a pathetic, half-hearted pulse as Aziraphale caressed him all over: Up his inner thighs. His stomach. Skimming his nipples. The sides of his face. His lips. His left ear. Down his spine. Teasing the small of his back. 

Idle. Distracted. Like Aziraphale was intent on a good book. But still somehow—loving. A sweet caress someone might give their lover while lying in bed a lazy Sunday morning.

Crowley couldn’t take it. He was going to explode into a million atoms and fly off into the universe. He was going to _discorporate_. His heart pounded hard against his ribs as he slid down his seat, hips rolling mindlessly, moans grating out of his raw throat. The relentless, _loving_ pressure was bringing him to heights he had never experienced before, even after coming twice. His back bowed off his seat, breath tearing savagely from his throat. He was teetering on the edge of total euphoria, he just needed—

The fingers slowly drew away.

“Oh _come on!_” Crowley wailed, flinging himself back down onto his seat. He was going to _murder_ the angel. He was going to _tear him apart_. He was going to tie him up and bring him to the brink every day for the rest of his life and _leave him there_—

The fingers returned, strangely finicky, as if he were _preening_ Crowley, which translated to a broad thumb stroking over the slick head of his prick, and then—and then plucking at him, which was bloody weird but it worked somehow. Nimble fingers slowly tripped their way down his shaft, to his balls, then back up to pay close attention to the tip of his prick, as if Aziraphale were smoothing the barbs he’d been sucking on earlier.

And so, Crowley experienced the most powerful orgasm of his entire long life from an _excessively fussy_ metaphysical handjob.

*

After straightening out the barbs of Crowley’s feather. Aziraphale set it on his bed and closed his book, tossing it to the side. He could still taste Crowley’s feather: like the first bite of creme brûlée. He wondered, idly, if that’s how Crowley’s skin tasted, then flushed a little. How inappropriate. Aziraphale blamed Crowley, mostly because he wasn’t here to call him out on his shite. 

Somehow—Aziraphale couldn’t put his finger on how—the feather made him feel closer to the demon. Like he was actually touching Crowley.

Foolish. The idle thoughts of a lonely angel. Aziraphale sighed, cutting a glance to the feather. And it _was_ foolish, but Aziraphale picked up the feather again, pressed his lips to it, thinking, wistfully, of kissing Crowley just as tenderly, and then carefully placed it on his nightstand.

*

For several long moments Crowley couldn’t move, his limbs as heavy as lead. The world came back to him in bits and pieces. High beams flooding the inside of his car, lingering as the driver slowed down in obvious concern, before squealing off after Crowley gently shoved them away. The tick of his engine as the Bentley pointedly cooled down. His radio trailing from _Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy_ to _Crazy Little Thing Called Love_. 

“Knock it off,” Crowley told his car. In response, the volume turned up.

If he were a human, he probably would have died of a heart attack halfway through. As it was, his pants were a fucking _mess_. He didn’t even have the energy to wave it away.

Fucking. _Hell_.

He debated telling Aziraphale to keep the feather. Sure, he would never get anything done ever again during his short life and would probably discorporate after a week, but what a way to go.

He convulsed when another wave of pleasure washed through him and he tensed, preparing himself for another onslaught of mindless lust. But the feeling was brief, a tender brush of affection, a sweet sweep of lips against his feather. As if Aziraphale had just kissed it.

“Oh, angel,” said Crowley, glad no one was around to hear the decidedly undemonic soppiness in his voice.

It took a full twenty minutes before he could convince his body to move again. He flopped his hand over to the passenger seat and jabbed at his iPhone, then let it ring for fifty-two times, dazed, before ending the call. After another half hour, he reversed the Bentley out of the ditch, and resumed the long journey back to Aziraphale.


	3. Chapter 3

Aziraphale very rarely slept, but he had other ways to pass the hours—mostly, he spent his time studying the interesting books he’s collected. Last night, feeling nostalgic, he’d got lost in _Hamlet_. If he were to be honest with himself (which he so rarely was when it came to a certain demon), it was because it made him think of Crowley.

Irritably, he got out of bed. Crowley was inhabiting far too much of his mind lately. He shot a frown at the feather as if it were its fault, then sighed and picked it up, resigned. Idly, he stroked the feather, smoothing out the barbs, then carefully placed it in an inner pocket for safe keeping.

*

About three miles outside of London, a classic, slightly battered Bentley ran over two bins and one mailbox.

*

Early morning sunlight caught the dust motes drifting through the shop, like little glowing fairies, a liminal space between the real world and the mythical. It shone over the covers of the books, promising voyages to distant lands, of knights rescuing princesses from fire breathing dragons, of adventure, of romance.

Aziraphale surveyed the cozy scene with his hands planted on his hips and a disapproving frown curving the corners of his mouth. He lifted a warning eyebrow.

Immediately, the shutters snapped shut and a cloud of dust popped over the books, giving the entire bookshop a more gloomy atmosphere. 

“That’s better,” said Aziraphale, approvingly.

Grudgingly, he flipped the sign from closed to open. At least the forecast was dreadfully cold today, which meant there would be less people wandering around Soho. It also meant that more people would be coming in to seek shelter from the cold. At least for now he could enjoy relative peace. He circled around his counter, slumping next to the rarely used till (cash only), and drew the feather from his pocket. He propped his chin up with one hand and lifted the feather with his other, twirling the quill between his thumb and forefinger. The light caught the barbs, glinting white, with a fair faint red sheen. A little quirk that was all Crowley. 

Maybe he should ring Crowley up. Aziraphale could call him any time now; he had just got a new ‘mobile phone’ and wouldn’t stop nattering on about it. He’d given Aziraphale his new number on a small scrap of paper, as if Aziraphale hadn’t memorized it at a glance—

The door suddenly slammed open so hard that a couple books from a nearby shelf toppled to the floor. Aziraphale jumped, snapping out of his daydream, then straightened up, filling with angelic righteousness. Who dared storm into his shop so rudely?

Crowley clung to the doorframe, panting so hard that Aziraphale could see his breath come out in little clouds, like he was a steam engine. Aziraphale blinked. It was rather cold outside, but Crowley didn’t exactly run hot. Was he injured? Startled and dismayed, Aziraphale rushed forward, then jerked to a stuttering halt. As an unspoken rule, they touched each other as little as possible, but Crowley looked one step away from discorporation. 

“My dear, what _happened_?” Aziraphale asked fretfully, wringing his hands together to keep himself from touching.

“_You_ happened,” Crowley shot back at him, stumbling into the shop. His sunglasses sat askew on the bridge of his nose; the corner of his eye was wide and frantic. 

“_Me?_ I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Aziraphale said, a little offended. He shut the door and, after a moment’s consideration, locked it and flipped the sign to closed, before turning back to Crowley.

Crowley had propped himself up against the bookshelf. His sunglasses hung loosely from one hand; the other was rubbing at his eyes. His fingers were slightly quivering.

Aziraphale worried his lower lip between his teeth, suddenly uncertain. They hadn’t left on the best terms the last time they’d seen each other—just a couple of days ago, amazingly. It felt like a century. 

“My dear, I really must ask what you meant when you said _you happened_,” said Aziraphale, his tone gentler than it would have been had there not been the lingering tension sparking the air between them.

“The _feather_, Aziraphale,” Crowley snapped.

“The feather?” Aziraphale repeated, blankly.

Crowley waved his hand at the feather he still had clenched in one hand. “That feather. _My_ feather. It, uh—” Red crept up under his collar, spreading to his neck, then his cheeks.

Squinting a little at the blush, Aziraphale really _looked_ at Crowley. Then he gasped, covering his mouth with both his hands. Since he was still holding the feather, this made Crowley cling to one of the bookshelves, his knees buckling.

“Oh! I am so sorry, Crowley!” Aziraphale said, quickly yanking the feather away from his face. Crowley was already panting raggedly. Just like that. Aziraphale stared at the feather, then back at Crowley, who was trying to look like he was just casually leaning against the bookshelf. “Had I known, I would have never—”

“Yeah, yeah,” said Crowley, slicing his hand through the air as if he could physically cut off Aziraphale’s fumbling apologies. “I figured that out pretty quickly, angel. By the way, you _really_ need an answering machine.”

Aziraphale blushed hotly, suddenly—and vividly—remembering just _exactly_ what he’d been doing with the feather. “Does that mean—”

“Yes,” Crowley ground out. 

“And that time when I—”

“Yesss,” Crowley hissed.

“Oh.” Aziraphale looked down at the feather as if it personally betrayed him. One would think Heaven would think this _vastly important_ piece of information should be shared with the Host. That was bureaucracy for you.

He looked back up. Crowley was—Crowley was completely undone. There was no lingering physical evidence of what he had gone through that Aziraphale could see, except that his hair was standing up in wild angles and the front of his shirt was rumpled in a way that it never was. Aziraphale’s lips parted. He did not need much of an imagination to picture Crowley writhing in the driver’s seat of his Bentley, wild from desire.

More importantly, without his sunglasses hiding those burning candles of his eyes, Aziraphale could see the way they tracked Aziraphale’s lips when they parted.

“Er,” said Aziraphale. “Would you like me to continue?”

Crowley staggered over to Aziraphale’s chair and sat down, dropping his head in his hands.

“It’s just that—I mean, we’ve gone this far already,” said Aziraphale, like he was trying to convince himself, too. 

Crowley dragged his hands down his face, staring at Aziraphale. It had begun to rain. The only sound in the shop was the gentle tapping of raindrops against the window.

Feeling foolish, Aziraphale held out the feather. He didn’t even know _why_ he asked. It had been impulsive in a way Aziraphale never was, spurred by longing for Crowley these past couple of days. “Never mind. That was highly inappropriate of me to ask—”

“Yeah,” Crowley rumbled.

Heat flooded Aziraphale’s cheeks. He stepped closer and jerked the feather down to Crowley. Crowley just stared up at him, hand still covering his mouth. He didn’t take the feather.

“Oh,” Aziraphale breathed. “You meant—”

Crowley tipped his chin down a fraction of an inch. Interpreting this as an emphatic _yes_—after so many millennia, he was pretty fluent in Crowley-speak—Aziraphale slowly swept the feather across his fingertips.

The effect was _inspired_. Crowley dropped his face back into his hands, digging his fingers into his hair, a groan scraping out of him. The tips of his ears were red.

“Make an Effort,” Crowley growled into his hands.

Right. That was fair. Aziraphale normally didn’t bother with genitals, but it wasn’t hard to make an Effort now. He considered it for a moment, then chose a dick. It would work best for the hazy plan that was slowly forming in the back of his mind.

Ever the scholar, Aziraphale lifted the feather to examine it closely. It had the same anatomy of a bird’s feather: a quill, soft plumes at the base, rigid barbs.

“I wonder—do parts of the feather correspond with specific parts of your anatomy?” Aziraphale drifted one finger down the shaft of the feather. “Or does intent matter? If for example, I’m thinking of, say, your left elbow—” He concentrated on the joint, then ran his fingers over the tip of the feather. “Where did you feel that?”

Crowley writhed in his seat.

“My dear,” said Aziraphale, stepping closer.

“Elbow,” Crowley gritted out.

Interesting. Unless Crowley had some unusual erogenous zones, the feather still translated Aziraphale’s touch into pleasure so powerful it appeared to border pain. On his elbow.

“And if I think of nothing at all?” He fingered the tip of the feather. A full body shudder wracked through Crowley. “Crowley,” he said, gently.

“My—” said Crowley, wrenching the words from somewhere deep within him. “My prick.”

Aziraphale hummed thoughtfully. “So when I touch the feather here”—he smoothed his thumb over the tip of the feather—“does it feel like I’m touching the glans of your prick?” He waited nearly half a minute for Crowley to recover enough to nod, then set the feather flat on his fingers, pressing his thumb to the other side, and drew it through in a slow caress. And then: again. “Based on that correlation, I can safely assume that the shaft of your feather corresponds with the shaft of your prick.” 

He’d stepped forward unintentionally while he spoke, and they were so close now that Crowley’s knees brushed against his shins. Crowley was gasping out scratchy groans; he’d dropped his hands to his thighs and tilted his head back, watching Aziraphale with those beautiful yellow eyes as if he were compelled to. Their eyes met and held, the connection between them a live wire, sparking with wild electricity.

“And here.” Aziraphale’s own voice was nearly unrecognizable, low and commanding. He delicately pinched the quill between two fingers. “Is this the base of your prick, or your scrotum?”

Crowley’s eyes squeezed shut, the skin around them scrunching as if in pain, and his mouth fell open with a long groan. His hips bucked, and it took Aziraphale a moment to realize that he was watching Crowley come. He stared, shocked, and then greedy, studying the way Crowley’s lips moved around his groans, how his eyelashes fluttered and his Adam’s apple bobbed.

“But I didn’t stop, did I?” Aziraphale asked. His own voice sounded distant, washed out by the roaring in his ears. “I played with your feather for quite some time last night. I didn’t give you a moment to recover.”

Crowley’s eyes slowly opened again, his beautiful golden irises revealed in fractions. He shook his head.

“What happens,” Aziraphale asked, “when I use your feather to touch myself?”

“I’ll probably discorporate,” said Crowley, his voice deeper and more breathless than Aziraphale had ever heard. “But do it anyway.”

It was Crowley’s turn to watch greedily as Aziraphale undid his bow tie, letting it fall to the floor. He shrugged off his coat, then unbuttoned his shirt with one hand. The shirt followed the coat to the floor. Aziraphale considered the feather for a moment, then drew it down his own chest. 

He didn’t think the connection worked both ways. It was only his touch to the feather that brought Crowley to the edge of madness with each stroke. Perhaps he was just worked up from watching Crowley fall apart. The first gentle brush of the feather against his clavicle sent pleasure prickling over his skin, but it was Crowley who let out a disbelieving groan.

“Does it feel like you’re touching me?” Aziraphale asked quietly. He caressed the feather over his own nipple; they both gasped. “Crowley.”

“Y-yeah—_fuck_.”

Aziraphale hadn’t actually been prompting for a response that time, he’d just wanted to say Crowley’s name. But actually, he had another question. “With your hand or with your prick?” he asked, curious.

Crowley let out a disbelieving huff that sounded almost like a laugh. “With—I don’t know, angel. With my soul, or whatever pitiful remains there is of it.”

Oh. That was—that was _fascinating_.

A part of Aziraphale wanted to set the feather down and gather Crowley up in his arms to just hold him for awhile, but the other part of him was humming with arousal, with the need to see Crowley come apart a second time. So he fumbled with the front of his pants, undoing the buttons far more clumsily than he had originally planned. He met Crowley’s eyes again, then leaned over him, bracing himself against the back of the chair. They were so close that they shared the air through ragged breaths between them.

“If—” said Aziraphale, panting harshly. “If your feather touches my own prick, then—” 

Crowley’s eyes were impossibly wide as Aziraphale brought the feather to his prick. Gone was all his curious exploration; his hand trembled as he pressed the feather against his aching cock, wetting the tip of the feather with his own precome. Crowley threw his head back, his back bowing off the chair.

The feather drifted to the ground. Aziraphale fell to his knees, grabbing the front of Crowley’s pants and tearing them open. Bright yellow eyes flew open and crashed into blue ones.

“Can I—” Aziraphale begged.

“_Please_—!” Crowley cried.

And then Aziraphale took Crowley’s prick as far down his throat as he could manage, just as Crowley came so hard the very bookshop trembled at the shock of it.


End file.
